


A Couple of (a Million) Faces

by xxsnailxx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Dark fic, I should probably be adding a thousand warnings but they'd give the plot away, If references to dark themes make you squick, It should suffice to say, It's not sad either, M/M, Minor Character(s), Obsession, Stalking, The resolution is... not happy, Very Dark Fic, don't read it, it just is, the usual lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 20:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14818242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxsnailxx/pseuds/xxsnailxx
Summary: Soulmate/ˈsəʊlmeɪt/Two (or more) souls that are created simultaneously, are destined to follow one another about the wheel of rebirth, and eventually face their end together.Or: The author takes a canonverse!soulmate Harrymort, a non-magical!office Tomarry, and a dictionary and mashes them together to form a fic that works... sort of...Obviously, canonverse! diverges from canon.





	A Couple of (a Million) Faces

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up one morning with a line from 5SOS' Amnesia; "like the way it felt to fall asleep next to you," and this happened.

Harry didn’t drag himself out of bed at 0500 for this. His first day of work at Riddle Corp. was supposed to be perfect. A little awkward, maybe, but he was supposed to impress his manager and co-workers. At the very least, he wasn’t supposed to mess up.

He wasn’t supposed to walk into a pillar upon stepping into the lift lobby, so, of course, that’s what he does. (He also wasn’t supposed to only go to sleep at 0200, but Harry has never been one to let the details stop him.)

In retrospect, he should have expected this to happen, what with Sirius jinxing him every other minute since he had been accepted for the job yesterday.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he mutters taking a step back to maybe glare at the offending pillar. The pillar in question raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

... Well, fuck. He wasn’t supposed to walk into _the_ CEO, glare at him and swear, but guess what he’s done anyway?

He immediately launches off into a tirade of ‘shite’s, ‘I’m sorry’s, ‘didn’t see you there’s (ironic, because the damn pillar of a CEO has got to be four inches taller than him), and ‘didn’t mean to’s, until he’s taken pity on and given a reprimanding flick on the forehead, which makes him jolt out of the word dump.

Scratch that, it makes him jump, and squeak, and basically shocks the living daylights out of him. He braves a glance at CEO Riddle’s face and sees crimson eyes levelling him with an unimpressed look.

Harry blinks, and suddenly the brown eyes seem vaguely intrigued. Vaguely intrigued and very familiar.

“Uhm... have we met?” He immediately slams a hand over his mouth in hopes of stemming the embarrassingly ineloquent flow of words it seems insistent on letting out today. A little too late for that, if the amused twitch of CEO Riddle’s lips is anything to go by.

It’s a stunning smile, really, the way his whole posture seems to relax with the slightest upturn of the lips.

Harry is saved from further silent scrutiny by the ‘ _ding_ ’ of the elevator. He scrambles in frantically, keeping his head bowed to maybe hopefully hide the flush of his cheeks because he really really needs to stop embarrassing himself. He makes extra sure to step as deep into the elevator as possible and — wait. _Wait_.

The elevator is empty, but for himself and the pillar behind him. Of course it is. The only ones crazy enough to come to work at 0700 are the desperate-to-impress and the work-obsessed. Mortified, Harry turns around slowly and prays that he doesn’t have to backtrack to press the right floor. He’s even more mortified when he realises his floor is already lighted up, alongside the highest one.

The elevator ride to the 20th floor is stifling.

At around the 5th floor, CEO Riddle looks at him.

By the 15th floor, the look is still present. Expectant, almost.

“Uhmm... I’m really sorry?” he offers tentatively.

“I gathered that much,” is the dry reply and — _holy shit_. That’s the first time Harry has heard the CEO speak and he can definitely say the voice is no less attractive than the face or the figure and he absolutely would not say no to listening to _this_ guy speak for hours on end and no he is clearly not blushing. Also, Harry really really hopes he can hear him sing someday.

After what seems like an hour of feeling his face slowly heat up while CEO Riddle watches, amused, the lift finally ‘ _ding_ ’s again. Harry makes to rush out, but stops just short of the doors.

Then, because his mouth has a rebellious streak couple of lightyears long, he says, “I’ll get you a coffee or something, to make up for it?”

Smooth Harry, real smooth.

CEO Riddle’s eyebrow shoots up impossibly higher. “Lunch is at two.”

Real smooth.

* * *

**_Meet_** /miːt/

> 1\. to arrange or happen to come into the presence or company of someone  
>  2\. to touch; join

* * *

Boy-Who-Lived’s first entry in the diary was surprising, to say the least. One moment he was sputtering on spilt ink, and the next—;

> _My name is Harry Potter_

—half of Tom Marvolo Riddle knew Horcruxes were a mistake.

So he plotted.

> _Hello Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle._

If he had a corporeal form, he would have smiled maliciously. _Nice to meet you._

* * *

It turns out Harry’s lunch break was supposed to be 1230 to 1400. His manager tells him to be back by 1600. Harry really does not want to think about why he’s got three and a half hours of break, but he thinks he does.

What Harry meant when he offered to get CEO Riddle a coffee was that he’d run to a nearest coffee shop and fetch one for him. How Riddle interpreted it, apparently, was an offer for a coffee date.

Harry did not sign up for this, but he’s not complaining.

He’s also _not_ smiling and blushing like an idiot when Riddle orders his coffee ‘black and disgustingly viscous like my soul’, or when Riddle picks a table in the cosiest corner of the shop, or when he watches Harry studiously while idly stirring his coffee despite the fact that _a)_ it was served ready for consumption, and _b)_ anyone else doing it would be hair-raisingly creepy but. Riddle is unbelievably good looking and that means he can get away with it.

Also, Riddle staring at him means he has no cause to feel embarrassed staring back.

Obviously, he feels embarrassed anyway. Harry’s penchant for doing the not-supposed-to-do is only getting worse.

He’s not, for example, supposed to be taking two hours off on his first day to be drinking coffee in a cute coffee shop with his CEO. Basic work ethics. Even Harry, who was raised single-handedly by Sirius ‘I bribed my way into a political party, then quit and outed them the next day just because I can’ Black, knows that.

“You got in without an interview,” Riddle points out abruptly. Harry’s not very sure how he knows that, but he says it like it’s a rare thing, so it might be that.

“Uh, yes.”

He hums in a way that, had Harry’s face not already been beet red, it would put a fully ripe tomato to shame. “You must be impressive, then. Enlighten me.”

He contemplates downing his still steaming cup of herbal tea to cover his sputtering (spluttering), but his last strain of rational thought informs him sputtering is decidedly less embarrassing than spilling hot tea all over himself. “I— uhm. Uh.” Is there an appropriate way to tell your CEO you got into his company by acquaintance? “My resumé is pretty average really—”

“I’ve seen it. Graduated from Hogwarts’ Business Administration course with third class honours, no prior work experience. Fresh from the oven, as they say.” Riddle hums again, and it’s safe to say that if Harry hadn’t been thrown suddenly onto high alert, he would have swooned and probably made a humiliating comment along the lines of ‘I’m not exactly freshly made but you can try me anyway’.

But it’s suspicious. Riddle’s suspicious. Surely he didn’t invite every newly employed graduate for a coffee date. Surely he didn’t memorise the credentials of all his employees.

And surely, his reflection in his coffee isn’t supposed to look like a pale, hairless person without a nose. His eyes aren’t supposed to glint like that, ‘trick of the light’ or no.

“Your godfather is a Black, Bella told me.”

Harry almost sighs in relief. “Yes. Bellatrix offered me the job. Said she couldn’t have a ward of the Black family be unemployed; or worse, working as a public servant.” He does not mention, but Bellatrix also burnt his job application to Phoenix.

Riddle looked away for the first time since sitting down, taking a sip of coffee. “And your thoughts on the matter?”

When he puts it back down, the reflection in the coffee is normal again, suddenly. Normal, meaning indecipherable and diffused, because it’s thick, black coffee Riddle’s drinking. Maybe Harry was imagining it, after all. “I am honoured to be working at Riddle’s. I won’t let you down.”

* * *

**_Reflection_** /rɪˈflɛkʃ(ə)n/

> 1\. an image seen in a mirror or shiny surface  
>  2\. an idea about something, especially one that is written down or expressed

* * *

A couple of days after the diary had gone missing, it was found again, sitting innocuously on Harry’s trunk.

> _You should take better care of your things, especially diaries. I could spill your secrets, you know?_

Harry grinned, glad to have his friend back, and wrote:

> _Where have you been?_

And wrote. And wrote.

When he woke up the next day, there was a diadem on his bedside table, sitting on a note.

> _The Diadem of Wisdom. It grants neither wisdom nor knowledge, but rather the clarity of mind. Its meditative properties are perfect for sessions of self-reflection._

* * *

Harry stands corrected. Riddle did not take his offer as an invitation to a coffee date. He took it as a long-term business proposal.

On Harry’s second day of work, he shows up considerably later to find a stack of papers on his desk. An all-new work contract with an increased salary that states his job includes a two-hour session after lunch _every day_ , to be spent as the CEO’s custodian. Body guard. Chaperone. Escort.

Hah. Harry bloody Skin-and-Bones Potter, CEO Riddle’s new coffee break bodyguard?

He’s going to be the meme of the company. His colleagues will mock him. The newbie who got in through relations got a pay rise! On his second day! For spending two hours a day drinking coffee with the super-gorgeous, extra-eligible CEO!

Great. Brilliant. His social prospects in the company were about as high and bright as Hell’s deepest pit.

“It’s not like that,” he tells his manager the moment she winked at him as she walked by.

Clearly disbelieving, she swivels the chair by the next desk and plops herself down. “I’m glad, really,” Johnson whispers conspiratorially. “If the rumour spreads that the Riddle’s gay, the female population of this company can stop falling over themselves to impress him and finally get some work done.”

“I’m not a member of the female population but I’m falling over myself to impress him instead of getting my work done,” he points out blandly.

“Yes, yes, but all your work’s been reallocated and you’ve actually impressed him, so I’d count _that_ project successful.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively as she gets up. Reaching out to ruffle his hair, she adds, “Besides, you’re pretty cute yourself, I’m sure the girls won’t cause you too much trouble.”

Harry coughs and sputters, causing his chair to slide away from the desk from the force. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles.

It doesn’t get much better after that.

During lunch, Harry is smothered by the overenthusiastic female population of Riddle Corp.’s makeup division attempting to dress him up for his ‘date’ with Riddle. He keeps his fists clenched in this sweater pocket because if he relaxes just a little, he would reflexively deliver a punch to the hand blatantly tugging on his hair, or the voice cooing about how soft his skin is, or the fingers pinching his cheeks, or the one that’s just... attempting to remove his sweater?

What.

By the time lunch break is over, Harry is starving, confused and in an altogether more ruffled state than before.

He takes the elevator to the highest floor, steps out — _he’s not intimidated, he’s not intimidated, he’s not_ — and promptly steps back in. Takes a deep breath, stills his pounding heart, clears the fog in his mind, takes a step forward, then stills. The elevator door closes.

Well.

So begins Harry’s descent. For an unfathomable reason, it does not occur to him that he can exit the elevator at any floor until it arrives at the first floor, and he blinks owlishly in realisation. A quick glance at his watch informs him it is ten-past-two.

As it begins acsending again, he his mobile phone rings. It’s an unknown private number, but since Harry has yet to save his new colleagues’ contacts, he picks up.

Then almost swears aloud.

This voice can only belong to one person. < _Where are you._ >

Audibly, Harry gulps. He hopes it isn’t picked up. “I-in the elevator, sir.”

A click of tongue. < _I do not expect tardiness from you, much less on your first day of work. Runs the risk of leaving a bad impression, yes?_ >

He gapes. So _that’s_ why Riddle wants him as his coffee break bodyguard? Because he was early for his first day of work? (But who was Harry to complain?) “No, of course not, sir. I’ll be there in three floors.”

< _Noted._ > Harry swears he hears the shuffling of papers before the beep.

The desperate-to-impress and the work-obsessed, indeed.

The elevator dings, and Harry steps out. _Take two. Action._ He stalks confidently past the high ranking officials’ offices, straight to the door at the end of the corridor. His thoughts do not linger on how intimidating it is that all the offices had no windows overlooking the corridor.

No wonder they call this floor the Department of Mysteries.

Knocks on the door with the plate reading ‘CEO T M Riddle’. It is a distressfully long moment before the CEO says, “Enter.”

Wiping his hands on his pants one last time, Harry pushes the door open carefully. “I’m so sorry for being late, I just—”

“So I’ve already been informed.”

Oh. Shit. He’s repeating himself, isn’t he? “Right, sorry.”

Riddle slowly, deliberately steeples his fingers, before nodding towards the chair opposite his desk. Hurriedly, he scrambles to seat himself. “Have you any questions regarding the new contract? Any objections?”

“No, sir!”

His reply is met by an unimpressed stare. “Have you looked through it?”

“No—Yes, sir!”

“And you have no questions?”

“No—Ye—No, sir.” Honestly. ‘No, I have no questions,’ or ‘yes, I have no questions’?

“None at all?”

Harry swallows thickly as he recalls one. “Actually, sir... Why do you need a bodyguard?”

It’s not that Harry doesn’t understand a CEO’s need for a bodyguard, especially in recent times, with CEOs dropping left and right like ducks and geese in hunting season. What baffles Harry is why _Riddle_ , a well-known martial artist that even Bellatrix is in awe of, _suddenly_ , on the day Harry first shows up at this company, requires _Harry_ —who’s literally skin-and-bones thin, has zero fighting experience, can’t stand two seconds before being knocked down by Bellatrix, and frankly looks about as intimidating as Peter was as an infant—to be his body guard?

Something doesn’t add up here, and it’s not just his sudden spike in salary. He’s pretty sure people take actual exams to become certified bodyguards.

Riddle, similarly, looks completely baffled. As in, his eyebrows are slightly drawn together. Has to be about as baffled as he gets. “You have heard about the Death Eaters, naturally.”

The assassin group led by a self-declared Lord Voldemort that has been killing the head of every other corporate involved in fashion production in London. And he means _every_ other head. The replacements have been going as fast as one can fire the average machine gun. It’s all very suspicious in that Riddle is the only CEO in London’s fashion industry that has been in position for more than half a year. And he's been a CEO for a decade, something like.

“Yes, sir.”

“You would know, then, that I am the most obvious target alive. So obvious, in fact, that the media are pointing fingers at my company for being responsible for killing off our competitors.”

“Of course, sir. But I do not believe I am the best man for the job.”

“Neither do I,” he says frankly. Harry is thus further confused. “Tell me, Harry—” Since when were they on first-name basis? “—what are your thoughts about the speculations?”

What. Are. His. Thoughts. On speculations. That his company is responsible for the rapid beheading of all its competitors? Quite frankly, Harry is positive that Riddle is directly related to the cases. Bellatrix seems like the type to kill off her rivals, too. And wasn’t that what Regulus was rumoured to be running from? Left a vague note behind and everything.

“I’m afraid I do not know enough about this topic to form my own solid opinions, sir. I do believe no incriminating evidence has been found.”

Riddle holds his gaze for a moment before nodding in satisfaction. “Very diplomatic, good. However, you paused too long before replying, you spoke too fast to make up for it, your eyes were too focused, expression too stiff. You need to improve on your lying skills, and your superiors are not the right people to practise on.” He flexes his fingers before asking again, “What are your views, Harry?”

He knows his face is heating up, both in mortification and at the notion that Riddle really is _watching_ him. “Riddle Corp. is indeed in a very suspicious position, sir.”

With a grin that would put the cheshire cat to shame, Riddle leans forward. “So, it is completely understandable that I would require a bodyguard, yes? being an obvious target and all.”

* * *

**_Guard_** /ɡɑːd/

> 1\. protect against damage or harm  
>  2\. watch over in order to protect or control

* * *

For two years, Harry brought the diary — a _horcrux_ , he’s been told — everywhere he went. With disillusionment charms and all, of course.

The last time he did, it was to the Twiwizard Tournament’s third task, for the luck and comfort it brought him. Not that he would have been able to leave without Tom, anyway. He was absolutely adamant about protecting Harry.

(‘ _What’s the point of a guard if you’re hiding its vessel?’_  
_‘I’m in Hogwarts, there’s nothing here that can harm—’_

Needless to say, that conversation did not do wonders for Harry’s freedom of movement.)

When Voldemort’s form, new and naked as the day he was born, rose from the cauldron, Harry felt his breath catch, felt his heart still. He wanted to run, of course— _Was Voldemort even human anymore?_ — but more than that, a part of him had reared back in a pleasant kind of shock. Recognition, familiarity, longing and a bittersweet sense of loss awakened in him, seemingly out of the blue cauldron. For no reason at all.

The first coherent thing he would recall saying was, “Don’t kill me, I have your diary.”

Things escalated pretty quickly from there. Or, in other words, Tom decided somehow that that was the most appropriate moment to project himself to the outside world, at the cost of Harry’s consciousness.

When he'd next awakened, he was informed unceremoniously that baby Voldemort had been unsuccessful in deterring snakelike Voldemort, and snakelike Voldemort will henceforth proceed with his original plans. It’s the abrupt change of pace and tone of the environment that confused Harry enough to make him return with Cedric’s body, and without the diary.

* * *

On the third day of work, Harry is met with yet another shock before his shift starts. He thinks, he should probably start waking up at 0830 instead, to avoid all these pre-work bombshells.

At this point, he’s not very sure he can still call his daily surprises ‘shocks’, but this event startles him, so he supposes it counts. Then again, a limousine waiting on your porch would be a shock to anyone, even without the CEO and his seven buff, sunglasses-wearing and otherwise just plain intimidating bodyguards standing around it.

Harry repeats internally: Riddle has seven buff, sunglasses-and-tuxedos bodyguards.

“What.”

“My previous bodyguard died in a car crash under alarmingly suspicious circumstances last evening,” Riddle informs him, and, surprise, surpise, he doesn’t sound alarmed at all. In fact, his voice was disturbingly... smug.

“Suspicious, like the mass CEO-assassination that has his the city?”

He grins, all sharklike and evil. “Yes, suspicious.”

Something clicks, and frankly Harry is impressed with himself at seeing it. “So, you decide that the best path of action is to hire seven professional bodyguards, to prevent the same from happening to your current one.”

“Exactly.”

It’s exasperation he feels when he presses a hand to his eyes and groans. The hairs on the nape of Harry’s neck do not stand. It’s 0800 and summer and probably 27°C; his hair erectors muscles do not contract at the sheer creepiness of the situation. He is not intimidated. “And that is more cost-effective than getting just one new bodyguard for yourself because...?”

“I will not compromise on my bodyguard just because his life is in danger. In any case, Section VII of your new contract states that I will take any feasible measures to ensure your safety.”

“Because hiring seven professional bodyguards for a bodyguard is such a feasible move. I see now why Skeeter's slanders against your company keeping afloat solely by the misfortunes of your competitors are so widely acknowledged as baseless bullshit, sir.”

There is a long silence. Thinking he’s gone too far, but frankly not seeing how Riddle could have expected him not to point that out, Harry finally removes the hand over his eyes. And promptly jumps back, slamming painfully into his doorframe, at the sight; Riddle, barely a foot away, is studying him with the most frightful intensity.

At Harry’s sudden movement, he cracks a grin that uncannily resembles a... cheetah? that got the cream. “Who said anything about hiring them? They’re the Black Family’s — technically, I am not even the one providing them.” He waves a hand at one of them.

The scrawniest of them — still ten times burlier than Harry, rest assured — steps forward and removes his sunglasses to reveal oddly large eyes. “Kreacher, young master Harry. Mistress Bella is telling Kreacher all about you. Kreacher is happy to be able to tell Mistress Bella and the Lord all about young master Harry.”

He is alarmed. Very much so.

* * *

**_Suspicious_** /səˈspɪʃəs/

> 1\. having or showing a cautious distrust of someone or something
> 
> 2\. causing someone to have the idea or impression that someone or something is questionable, dishonest, or dangerous

* * *

“... Harry, mate, are you okay?”

Harry jolted back to the reality that is Grimmauld Place at the voice. Spinning around, overcompensatingly quickly and causing himself a round of vertigo, he faked an also overcompensating smile. “Of course. Just thinking.” If he clutched the locket a little tighter at the sudden company, it was only because he had the presence of mind enough not to put it on. Merlin knew it’s more cunning than the diary.

He’d had no choice but to pretend to discover the locket after Dumbledore’d died to retrieve a fake. It would have been questionable if he were seen with the real locket after that, and, Circe, the Wizarding World is suspicious enough without additional fuel to the metaphorical stirring pot.

Ron grinned, too, but there was also a worried edge to it. “Well, you’re thinking a lot suddenly, aren’t you? About ways to destroy the locket? Or... well, Hermione thinks it might be affecting you... emotionally. We could take turns to—”

The window cracked, and the locket, around which Harry had further tightened his grip, flared hotly. He dropped it reflexively and swore. “What—”

“Mate.” Ron gripped his wrist, eyes concerned. “It burnt you. We really should take turns.”

Well, fuck.

Harry had no idea if the locket spoke to Ron and Hermione, but having it on made them... paranoid, and snappish. Its attempts at separating them, he supposed, but it definitely should consider a change of tactics.

* * *

“So...” Fred starts, sliding easily past Kreacher and into the seat on Harry’s right.

George slams his tray down, then whispers dramatically, “Rumour has it our department’s baby Harrykins came in Riddle’s car this morning.”

“I did. He’s plain terrible.”

“Persistent, though.”

“He still sucks.”

“And that’s... bad?” Fred asks, uncertainly.

Harry deadpans. “What.”

George sighs.

The rest of lunch goes by much like that, with conversation that jumps seemingly completely randomly, and the pauses where Fred says something, and George sighs, and Harry is confused.

(“Insult him? In public, here? He’d have my head. He’s as active a guillotine as the Queen of Hearts.”

“Really, they say he’s more inclined to give head, than to, you know, chop them off, though I suppose he might be the collecting type.”)

Then comes Coffee Break. Kreacher and Co. escort him to Riddle’s office, bow, and leave. Ironic, really, because if anything, Riddle is the most likely person who’d decide spontaneously to kill him. Harry’s pretty certain at this point (and after Kreacher’s self-introduction) that the whole bodyguards-for-the-bodyguard thing is just a farce to put constant surveillance on him.

What did he do to earn this perpetual stalking? Because Harry is not fooled. This is harrassment, though he is yet unsure of its nature.

Riddle smiles benignly when Harry enters the room, and a part of Harry reprimands himself for ever thinking badly of the man. But then he speaks, “Harry, what a pleasure. Unfortunately, I have an appointment right now, and lunch will have to wait. You have eaten?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Join us for the meeting.”

So it begins; Harry has officially been invited to his first upper echelon meeting.

The number of chairs in their meeting room is precisely enough to accommodate the group of them — ‘inner circle’, as Riddle calls them — so Harry stands awkwardly behind him. It’s apparently awkward enough that Rodolphus takes pity and asks him to just take a seat on Riddle. Said CEO shoots Harry a challenging smirk before calling the start of the meeting. He is then introduced to the group, and vice versa.

It’s hard to ignore the negative connotations of ‘escort’, with the smirk Riddle shoots him as he says it.

“Welcome,” he says, at the end of the introductions, “to the Death Eaters.”

* * *

**_Stalk_** /stɔːk/

> 1\. harrass or persecute with unwanted or obsessive attention  
>  2\. stride somewhere in a proud, stiff, or angry manner

* * *

When Harry was next alone with the locket, he left. It was mostly the locket’s compulsions, he supposed, but he hoped it was also partly his own desires, because it wasn’t long before he found himself standing before Dumbledore’s portrait. Clutching the locket in his hands like an offering, he took a calming breath, looked around the room again, then finally pulled off his cloak.

Dumbledore smiled at him, in his usual grandfatherly manner, and Harry was overwhelmed by the urge to say something. To apologise? To confess? To seek help? Advice? He wanted to let everything out, but had only one mouth. He could almost feel the thoughts scrambling over one another in his trachea a frenzy to be voiced.

The victor ended up being, “You call him Tom.”

“I do,” Dumbledore said simply.

He scrunched his eyes close in an attempt to phrase his question in a sentence that made even a modicum of sense. “Is he... Do you think he’s still in there, somewhere? Do you see Tom, when you look at him?”

“Are they not one and the same?”

And _oh_ , Harry felt something that resembled hope to a terrifying likeness drop within him. Did Dumbledore not see, that Tom and Voldemort were so very different? Did he really think Voldemort was born an insane megalomanical soulless being?

“Harry, my dear boy,” Dumbledore sounded much older suddenly, weary, “perhaps Tom might not have been Voldemort, but Voldemort is Tom, is he not?”

He had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but it made sense... to an extent. “You might have died for nothing.” And that was completely off-tangent, but it reflected the turmoil in his heart, and mind, and soul, so there’s that.

Either Dumbledore had the patience of a saint, or a dead Dumbledore had nothing to do but entertain confused teenagers, because his smile did not fall or strain in the slightest. “I think not. Tell me why you might think so? And take a seat, my boy.”

He obeyed, of course. Swivelling around in Snape’s chair, he attempted to sort through his thoughts while hoping he would not trigger an alarm of sorts. “You wanted to... protect us. But I’m... what, consorting with the enemy? Or I want to. I haven’t spoken to Voldemort since the day Sirius died, but I want to run to him, I want to embrace him, I want to save Tom, I want to—”

“Save Voldemort.”

Harry’s jaw clicked shut. “... Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Why would you be? Is Voldemort not part of the Wizarding World? Is he not human? Tell me, my boy, how far would you go to be with him? If he wants to burn the world, what will you do?”

“I...” He swallowed uncertainly. Harry wanted Tom to be happy, but Voldemort refused to feel remorse. He had a savior complex the size of the sun, could he allow Voldemort to burn the world? Even if Harry knew Voldemort was a victim of his own obsessive whims, to restrict his actions would still be against his will. What did he want, really? “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let him, but I dont think I can live without him, either, despite what the prophecy says.”

(TL;DR: Harry was very much conflicted.)

Dumbledore sighed, his smile finally fading. “What if I told you, Harry, that you hold within you a fragment of his soul?”

It so happened that Severus Snape chose this moment to slam the door to his office open and stalk in, cloak billowing ominously behind him.

* * *

So. Albus Dumbledore, Chief Advisor of Phoenix’s Board of Management has finally kicked the bucket. He was found dead with a slit throat in a locked room.

The Death Eaters toast Severus Snape’s success in ‘his latest project’ during the meeting.

These two events, are heavily implied to be very much related.

That’s okay, Harry is not afraid.

He is not worried that of the entirety of Phoenix’s Board of Management, Sirius and Severus Snape are the only members who have half a year of experience. Snape’s ascension to Chief Advisor does not bother him. The fact that these are _the Death Eaters_ does not strike terror in him. Bellatrix’s sinister rubbing of her hands do not freak him out.

Oh, who is he kidding.

Harry is obviously here for a reason. His godfather is dying, and Riddle wants him to know it, and he is fucking terrified.

Or, he thinks he is, until Riddle says, “That said, I insist that Harry’s accommodations are rearranged. Would the Malfoys be agreeable to housing him?” and he figures that _this_ must be what true terror is.

He can’t breathe, his hands are freezing and he’s... pretty sure he’s shaking. Those are the symptoms of terror, yes? “Excuse me?” he blurts out, his voice an embarrassing squeak.

“If my Lord so wishes,” Lucius Malfoy says amiably. “He is very much welcome to share our home.”

Oh, Harry’ll make sure they regret this.

“I couldn’t possibly impose—”

“Nonsense,” Malfoy admonishes. “We’re practically family. Besides, Sirius has personally requested for us to take care of you while he is busy with work.”

 _Take care of him_. What do they think he is, five? A toddler, an infant, a foetus, a zygote? He doesn’t need fucking caretakers, much less Death Eating ones. “No, really, I should be caring for my godfather while he is—”

“Don’t be obtuse, Harrykins,” Bellatrix coos. “Sirius isn’t going home.”

“He’ll return once,” Riddle corrects, “but only once. It will be lonely in the house.”

Not to mention, it’ll be a goddamn crime scene. Fuck them. “Let me get home to pack my things.” And hopefully leave a note for Sirius. A farewell note, if he can’t save him.

The thought makes his jaws clench and tremble. He can’t save Sirius. Even though the Death Eaters are literally telling him their plans, he can’t save Sirius. Why is he so fucking useless? He could tell the police, sure, but at this point he’s pretty sure the police are in on it. They’d ask for evidence he can’t provide, take so long to make any arrangements that Sirius would be dead before they even begin investigating. Despite the fact that the police and whatever other authority figures should have figured he’d be a target, even Dumbledore has died.

By Snape’s own hand, too. Damn it. They trusted him.

“Of course,” Riddle agrees cordially. “I shall go with you. You can have the day off; you were rather close to Dumbledore were you not?”

* * *

**_Trust_** /trʌst/

> 1\. believe in the reliability, truth or ability of  
>  2\. have confidence; hope

* * *

“Leave us, Severus,” Voldemort commanded in a hiss. Seated as regally as ever upon a throne in what seemed like an old fashioned dining hall, the Dark Lord waited with apparent nonchalance for the door to click shut before finally shifting his gaze onto the Saviour. “Harry.”

Harry fisted his robes in an attempt not to shiver at the sheer amount of... _tone_ in the voice. The way he made it sound like a hiss without an ‘s’, the way it sounded like a caress, the way he purred the name, the way it dripped of desire and devotion and obsession.

Like he would promise Harry the world, but only if Harry would watch it from within a high-security diamond cage in a horrible likeness of Rapunzel’s tower, safely reinforced by Voldemort’s paranoia.

Harry was not fooled. He knew it was not, would never be, love. But he knew it was as much as Voldemort could give him.

He walked up to the still-seated Dark Lord, who finally rose to his feet only to cup Harry’s jaw with a hand. His elongated thumb brushed his cheekbone, clinked against the bottom of his glasses.

“I see you’ve finally deigned to grace my lifeless halls with your presence, my light.”

“I brought your locket,” he whispered, afraid to use his voice out of fear that it would squeak. It probably would, too, with how romantically Voldemort spoke.

Voldemort’s hand trailed down to encircle his neck while his other arm snaked around his waist, pulling him closer. Finding the locket’s chain, his fingers slid along it until he was grasping the emerald-laden gold. And he traced the snake with his thumb, the same way he’d stroked Harry’s cheek earlier.

It’s almost like his cheek, too, were made of emeralds, was a treasured family heirloom and contained a piece of Voldemort’s soul. It’s ridiculous but it made Harry’s heart pound.

“It’s yours,” Voldemort whispered. “I could not make it half as happy, nor pull it off as beautifully.”

“But it’s—”

“A horcrux? I’m afraid I wouldn’t get along so well with a younger version of myself. Keep it safe for me.”

“Oh. But... the diary?”

“We fought.”

What. “You killed Tom,” Harry accused flatly.

“I may have.”

Plan A: Failed.

“And you don’t feel an _atom_ of remorse?”

Voldemort dropped the locket to lightly touch Harry’s cheek again. “Should I? It is... regrettable, but I do not see how the fight could have ended any other way.”

Obviously, making Voldemort reabsorb all the horcruxes is impossible. Time to activate Plan B. Phase 1: Convince Voldemort to put his trust in Harry. “That was dangerous. Dumbledore sent my friends and me to destroy your horcruxes — that’s how I found the locket. Are your other horcruxes safe? We should check up on them.”

It made him feel horrible, when Voldemort planted a kiss on his scar and murmured, “Tomorrow, my light.”

* * *

On the fourth day, Harry jolts awake to a sudden realisation. That particular strand of thought, however, dissipates when he notices the abnormal warmth against his back. And the arms wound around his waist, and the leg thrown over his hips.

... And that... partially erect cock... pressing against his spine.

Fuck.

Doesn’t help that he’s not fully clothed, either.

In fact, he very suspiciously does not recall ever going to bed unclothed, nor does he recall going to bed last night. His last memory is of...

_Oh._

Leaving a note for Sirius on his pillow.

Harry must have shifted slightly in his horror because the arms around his waist tighten. Then they loosen in a very deliberate but obvious attempt to play asleep.

He’s probably being paranoid, but he can’t stop himself from playing back to the first time he met Riddle. He’d assumed Riddle looked up his files after agreeing to get a coffee with him, but didn’t Riddle press the right floor for him?

In fact, that probably wasn’t the first time he met Riddle. Bellatrix isn’t even in HR; she’s his secretary. Did he get into the company on Bellatrix’s invitation, or Riddle’s? He’s seen the look of absolute devotion on her face, at the meeting yesterday. She might have _suggested_ hiring Harry, but in retrospect it’s obvious that it was Riddle who wanted him hired in the first place. She wouldn’t have gone so far as to burn his application to Phoenix, otherwise.

Hell, Bellatrix doesn’t even like him.

It’s obvious, in the way Riddle knew everything about him, in the way he seemed almost _relieved_ when Harry had recognised him. The way he offered Harry a new contract on his _second_ day of work. A contract he couldn’t have written in half a day. It’s so obvious.

“Ssh,” Riddle murmurs into his hair, a hand trailing up to smooth through it. “Relax. Breathe. I wouldn’t hurt _you_.” Because that is obviously the most comforting thing Riddle can say at this juncture.

Harry pushes away frantically, scrambling to the far edge of the bed. Riddle’s bed, presumably. Panting heavily, he accuses, “You killed Sirius.”

“Bella did.”

“On _your_ orders.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny such an ambiguous accusation.” Seeing Harry’s unimpressed look, Riddle sighs. “Come here,” he coos softly, as if he were speaking to a kitten

Harry is very much embarrassed to say it worked. The next thing he is aware of is being back in Riddle’s arms, his face being pressed into Riddle’s chest, a hand stroking his hair soothingly, and a voice whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Sweet nothings that were obviously lies. Not that the subconscious part of Harry seems to care. Under Riddle’s frankly mind-blowingly gentle ministrations, he finds himself almost drifting off to sleep.

The surreal, trance-like state lasts until he blinks, and Riddle looks all pale and waxy and skeletal for moment, and he feels a painful pang of grief; but he blinks again, and Riddle becomes human again and everything is normal. Except that Harry is lucid again. And he remembers exactly which revelation woke him.

When Bellatrix burnt his application to Phoenix, she said, “Can’t have you dying because Sirius gets you promoted. The Lord’ll be terribly upset,” which brings to mind an instance when he was rushing his final paper. She’d stopped by and told him not to stress himself out because, “You can’t screw this up badly enough for the Lord to not want you.”

Almost afraid of the answer, Harry whispers, “Have we met before?”

His only reply is a soft chuckling.

* * *

**_Soothe_** /suːð/

> 1\. gently calm (a person or their feelings)  
>  2\. reduce pain or discomfort in (a part of the body)

* * *

“Here it is, my Lord,” Bellatrix whispered reverently, holding the cup out as an offering.

Voldemort merely glanced at it in mild disdain before saying dismissively, “Now we have ascertained it is still intact, you may—”

Harry grabbed Voldemort’s sleeve and tugged. With his best pleading look, he whispered, “It’s a part of your soul. Let me speak to it?” _Bare your soul before me._

He was given an exasperated go-ahead before Bellatrix handed him the cup. He waited quietly for the door to shut behind them before throwing up a _muffliatio_ or three and hissing at the locket. It flew open in an almost violent movement, allowing a young Tom Riddle to emerge from it, as elegantly as ever.

“Harry, love, what can I do for you this fine evening?” Something about his abnormally pleasant demeanor gave away the disingenuous nature of the question. Harry shuddered and gulped at the notion of having to ask the damn locket politely as his mind raced rapidly for the most efficient way to convince Tom to agree.

It turned out to be obvious, really. “I need you to absorb the soul piece in the Cup.”

“Of course you do,” Tom replied, sounding just a tad condescending. “What do I gain from doing so?”

“Aside from becoming stronger, you mean?”

“He’s already killed the Diary, I’ll never be even half a soul. What’s to gain from getting that tiny fraction more?”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and bit his bottom lip as he pretended to think hard. “... Well, if you don’t want to do it, I guess I can ask the Cup—”

Locket Tom snorted. “I like you, I’ll do it. On one condition.” His smirk told Harry it wasn’t something he wanted to dismiss easily.

So, of course, that’s what Harry did on accident. “Great! What—” he cut off with a yelp at the sudden, blinding pain is his forehead, like something was _pulling_ his brains out viciously. It’s not a short process, and he’s pretty sure he blacked out..

When he came to, he was on the floor, head in Tom’s lap. “There, there,” Tom whispered, rubbing Harry’s forehead to soothe the pain, as if spreading it out. “Now your soul’s all yours. Feels great, doesn’t it?”

* * *

For Tom Riddle, it all started when Bellatrix had entered the office, fuming mad.

“Fucking.” She slammed the files on her desk. “Useless.” Picked up a random piece of document. “Cousin.” Tore it with more efficiency than a shredder.

Turns out, that was the day Sirius Black adopted his one-year-old godson, who was unfortunately left an orphan after they’d assassinated Lily and James Potter. Unfortunate, in this case, was Tom’s genuine opinion on the matter. He’d been attempting to pull them over to his company for the longest time, but they were firmly in Dumbledore’s pocket, and they just _had_ to use an invitation to his company for tea to sneak a peek at some confidential documents. (Project Death Eating-level of confidential.) Well, as the saying goes, curiosity kills the cat.

Someone, Severus, it must have been, made a snarky remark about how he was glad _he_ didn’t have to deal with James Potter’s son, and that resulted in Bellatrix bringing her godnephew to work the next day. Tom would have taken no notice at all, except that when Bella tossed the kid into his arms to free hers to give Severus a smack or two, the boy had taken one look at him, giggled, and reached out to slap his nose, screaming “No nose!” in a surprisingly coherent voice before falling dead asleep.

When he was five, Harry Potter drew a full-body portrait of a snake-like humanoid with no nose and red eyes (the only part of the art that was coloured), wearing a strange cloak of sorts. The humanoid held a strange stick-like object. He drew it on an extremely important document, a list of future ‘suspicious deaths’ in the fashion industry ‘acquired’ by Severus from ‘the local fortune teller’.

And so Tom found himself with a growing obsession. He did not bother hiding it. Needless to say, Bellatrix was ecstatic.

Presently, he pulls the boy closer, snuggling down against him comfortably. “Do I have a nose?” he asks quietly, knowing the boy is asleep despite the rays of sunlight already streaming in through the gap in the curtains. Harry doesn’t wake normally until half-past-nine.

Or not. Because he snorts and mumbles, “Most of the time.”

“Oh? When do I not have one, then?”

Clearly, Harry Potter at 0700 has no brain-to-mouth filter, is mostly still asleep and has an astute intuition, because he answers, “In my nightmares, and in your reflection when you’re discussing suspicious happenings. I think Voldemort has no nose. It’s sexy, but mostly just disturbing.” He’s ridiculously adorable when he immediately starts snoring. Tom underlines, for the hundredth time, the mental note to always catch Harry in his half-asleep state for amusing ramblings.

In his mindscape, most things are a mess. But there’s a small space right in the centre for keeping notes on Harry Potter. The things he likes, the enchanting habits he has, his talents, and every word he says. They’re as organised as his files are, meticulously sorted through and rearranged at the end of every meeting. Most of the notes started off as theories, guesses. They almost all ended up in the ‘Confirmed’ section. It almost feels like Tom knew Harry, on a deep, almost spiritual level. He knows he’s digged his ever-seeking talons of obsession far too deep into the boy’s life to be healthy, but somehow, he can’t bring himself to stop, to pull back just slightly to see Harry’s reactions.

There’s a part of him, somewhere, that thinks it isn’t enough. He _will_ find a way to make Harry reciprocate the fixation, or he’ll lock him up so he doesn’t have another choice, so it wouldn’t matter if Harry wanted for another or not.

* * *

**_Obsess_** /əbˈsɛs/

> 1\. preoccupy or fill the mind of (someone) continually and to a troubling extent

* * *

The horcruxes were gone. All of them. Nagini had been sent, wearing the locket, to seek out Severus in Hogwarts, under the guise of ensuring everything would run smoothly on that side. Tomorrow, Voldemort would officially occupy Hogwarts. It’s a castle, after all, and only fitting for the king-to-be such as himself. He had already sent out a challenge to the Ministry — not that it didn’t already belong to him — and the Order, that all against him should show up then, or forever hold their peace.

Harry knew his friends would show up. There was no question about it. After all, the Order was made up primarily of Gryffindors. He would not let them lose their lives for something so stupid.

It was time to activate Phase 3 of his plan. Or, well, Severus’ plan.

He stroked the vial in his pocket one last time — thereafter, he must pay it absolutely no mind — then knocked carefully on the door to Voldemort’s chambers. “It’s Harry.” That worked, as a password of sorts. The doors opened without resistance.

He felt his heart break, just a little more, because the wards were meant to sense malicious intent. Clearly, Phase 3 didn’t count as _malicious_.

As they said, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. He hoped, at the very least, they’d both end in Hell together.

 _One last chance,_ Harry told himself. He’d give Voldemort one last chance to change his mind. Not that it’d matter, since his soul was almost completely gone by now.

“Harry,” Voldemort whispered, sounding almost surprised. He carefully marked the page on the book and placed it on his nightstand before turning his full attention to Harry. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

There were so many ways he could go about this. But Harry wanted his death, at least, to have the slightest non-altruistic element. He gulped. “Can I… sleep with you? For good luck?”

Voldemort blinked twice, then slowly scooted over to accommodate him. They slept soon after, with Harry’s cloak thrown right by the bed.

Harry would have thought it impossible, but he managed to wake up before dawn. It was the excitement and anxiety of it all that roused him at 0400. Not letting himself move at anything greater than the speed of a snail, he shifted subtly until he could reach the discarded cloak on the bedside floor. He fumbled for the vial in the pocket, every brush of fabric sounding infinitely amplified to his nervous ears. When he’d finally gripped it, it slipped right through his sweat-covered fingers, causing him to swear under his breath.

‘Under his breath’, it seemed, was not quiet enough for the paranoid, light-sleeping Dark Lord. The body behind Harry shifted and he hummed sleepily. “Why are you awake?”

Harry sucked in his breath in shock. And guilt. “I… I love you, you know that, right?”

“Yes,” was the patient reply.

With his back still turned to Voldemort, he unscrewed the vial. “But even so, I can’t approve of… of eliminating all my friends. Even though I left them for you. I cannot participate in the slaughter at Hogwarts.”

“You don’t have to participate in it, my light. I’d prefer if you stay here, safe.” A hand touched his waist softly.

With one swift movement, Harry poured the contents of the vial into his mouth, and captured Voldemort’s lips in a kiss. He kept their lips firmly pressed together until he had deposited half the tasteless poison in his soulmate’s mouth. Voldemort swallowed the unnatural amount of ‘saliva’ unsuspectingly, then a flash of shock came over his usually unflappable features. Swallowing his own mouthful, Harry felt the unmistakably toxic burn from the otherwise cool liquid, and he knew there was no hiding this.

Watching the shock morph to betrayal and fear and disbelief was soul-crushingly painful. But Harry refused to cry, to crumple; he had a Dark Lord to talk to.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t… Severus said, if I served it with a hot drink, you wouldn’t know. But I couldn’t… If I had to poison you, I thought I’d… at least end it with a kiss?”

As he’d spoken, Harry watched Voldemort’s betrayed expression slip away, slowly being replaced by one of utter calmness. “There is no antidote, I assume. How long do we have left?”

Despite his expression, Voldemort’s rationality still took Harry by surprise. “10 minutes,” he managed to squeak out. He’d expected his soulmate to fly into a rage. Still, he might only be burying his reaction, to lull Harry into a sense of calm before lashing out. “I really am sorry,” he whispered. “I know immortality is the one thing you really obsess about and I took it away, after you entrusted me with it. But I really can’t condone taking others’ lives prematurely to extend your own. I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Voldemort replied, still as serene. “I much prefer this development, anyway.”

“... What?”

“Severus warned me, you have a bleeding heart. He said you’d kill yourself, if my plan for today works out. Said you’d never be the same again. Of course, I couldn’t simply withdraw the challenge. All I could do was follow through with it and hope everything turned out fine. Yes, I obsessed over my immortality, once upon a time, but surely it’s occured to you that I wouldn’t have so easily destroyed the Diary if I still did? Would I have let you go after I got my body back? I obsess over _you_ now, Harry. If this is the only way it can turn out between us, then let it be so, my light, let me never outlive your brilliance.” He reached out to gently cup Harry’s cheek. “It was a perfect execution, by the way. I didn’t notice at all.”

Harry blinked, stunned. “I—” He blinked again, and the tears that had been threatening to fall finally rolled down his cheeks. “Thank you,” he sobbed out. “I couldn’t take the thought of living without you, so I—”

“Hush. I know. Come, I start to weary.” Reaching out in a sluggish movement, Voldemort pulled him back to lie against him. “Sleep.”

As his eyelids dropped, Harry knew. In the morning, a crowd would gather at Hogwarts; The Death Eaters and the Rebellion. And Snape would tell them that both Harry and Voldemort were dead. Chaos would ensue.

But the chaos would end, and there would be less deaths than if Voldemort were to live.

He wished he could see that world, where the families of the Rebellion and Death Eaters alike were grateful the final battle at Hogwarts did not take place according to plan, wished he could see society rebuild itself after the anarchy brought forth by Voldemort. Wished he could live in such a safe world, one without war, with his soulmate by his side.

And his eyes closed, and there was darkness. And Harry wished.

**Author's Note:**

> My first contribution to this fandom !! I wrote this with the end in mind.
> 
> All dictionary entries, except for the one in the summary, are from Oxford English Reference Dictionary. I didn't want to write the last CEO!Tom part, but since a wrote a Diary!Tom POV in the beginning, my obsession with symmetry insisted.
> 
> Also, please review? I haven't written anything in so long, I need to know how this is lol. Constructive criticism is welcome


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